Brother's Lament
by jerrypoordaniel
Summary: Post Reichenbach. As John reminisces times with Sherlock, he recalls a harrowing conversation about each others' siblings. Through flashbacks, a story is told of how both Harry and Mycroft disappointed John and Sherlock in their respective ways.
1. Chapter 1

_ "I'm sorry."_

_ It was the only text he had gotten from Harry since it happened. It was also the first time she had spoken to him in a little under a year. _

_ The text startled John; he almost thought it was Sherlock at first. But of course it wasn't._

_ "I'm sorry."_

_ Sorry. She was sorry. Of course she was talking about Sherlock, but he could sense a graver meaning to the message._

_ John stared at his phone for a moment, then put it back in his coat pocket. He gazed at the empty chair across from him._

_ Suddenly a particular memory had crossed his mind, one he had not thought of for a while. It was a conversation he and Sherlock had once – about sibling lamentations. It was a night like no other, where they had let all inhibitions fall. Emotionally deconstructed their walls to their hearts._

_ John wished more than anything he could transport back into that night and ask Sherlock for advice. _

_ So he tried to do just that._

_ John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, seeing what he could find in his own mind palace._

_ Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would be there._

* * *

><p>The day transitioned into night and there was no choice but to find some candles.<p>

It was fine with the first couple of hours. The rain had been pounding extensively on the windows, so it was no surprise when the lights began to flicker and black out. Eventually, they had to light the candles they could find.

"Gives it sort of a Victorian feel, doesn't it?" John smirked while trying to lighten the mood. He sat down across from Sherlock, who had his knees pressed up to his chest with his feet at the edge of the seat. John could sense that his waiflike friend was ruminating.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled. He remained curled in his chair.

John sighed and shifted forward in his. "Sherlock, it'll just be a passing phase. The weather isn't supposed to be all that horrible the next couple of days. Even if the power is out for that long, we aren't going to be affected by a strong heat. And if we feel that the wind gets to such an annoying point tonight, we can go downstairs with Mrs. Hudson."

"John, as nice as the maternal comforting is, need I remind you that I am a grown man?" said Sherlock, slightly miffed by his flatmate's babying. "This black out is not going to be alleviated anytime soon. It'll last at least five days. Oh, and later on in the week it is supposed to increase in temperature."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, you aren't _God_. You can't predict when the bloody power comes back on."

"Nonsense. Did you see the work they were doing at the power lines? This storm only exacerbates what they were trying to correct. I am certain we will have to wait five days." He remained motionless, his eyes fixed forward.

John noticed Sherlock eyeing the freezer. "Do…"

"No," Sherlock answered, seemingly able to pick up on the question at hand. "I was, however, about to acquire an ewe's stomach."

"Making haggis are we?"

"No," Sherlock said, disgusted. "Haggis is appalling. No, I am going to be doing something much more savory with it and compare it to a human stomach. I want to measure effects-"

"That's alright, Sherlock," John cut him off. "I really don't need a biology lecture."

Sherlock remained silent, curled in his ball, his arms resting on his knees. His normally stoic face was displaying a slight element of distress, which was relatively unsettling to John. Not only because the characteristic was not readily featured on his face frequently, but also because John knew the guilt behind it in this specific occasion.

"Sherlock, you know I'm not mad at you-"

"I know."

"You still look worried."

"It was unfair of me to intrude."

"It was unfair of you to listen in on my conversation. And then walk in. And then say how you knew it all along."

Sherlock buried his face slightly into his arms. "Yes it was," he said quietly.

John eyed his companion in remission. He appreciated the fact that Sherlock was truly feeling bad about the situation. Not about his rudeness, but about how John was feeling. He recognized the gravity and weight that John was carrying.

"I just thought-" John started. Instead of finishing his sentence, he let out a small stream of air.

"You thought she was better."

John looked away from Sherlock's face and into the candle flame on the desk behind Sherlock's chair. Staring into the glowing, radiating energy. "Yeah. I really did."

"I did tell you at Christmas."

"Sherlock. We've been over this."

"I just wanted to say it nicer this time."

"Well, I guess that is nicer than 'She's been lying to you ever since Thanksgiving about giving up the booze.'"

"And I said it with less colloquialisms, too."

John bit his lip. He was using everything, _everything _in his being to keep from punching him.

"Sorry. Rude again."

"Yes… yes that was," is what John could manage through a strained voice. He looked back at Sherlock. He didn't want to explode at him again. He didn't want to throw his mobile against the wall, yell at Sherlock to get out, to slam the door in his face.

John had just been standing there, staring at the door, a sort of numbness trickling down from the top of his head. He was so encumbered by his rage, his feelings of betrayal. And he shut out the one person that actually kept to his promises he made to John. He opened the door after a few minutes, and found that Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot either.

After the argument, Sherlock apologized. It was the only time John actually remembered Sherlock ever apologizing to him. Since then, though, the air between them had eased a bit. By dinner, they had seemed to let the icy moment behind them. It was as if it was a simple fight between brothers.

If only it could be that.

"I just didn't think she'd have to go into rehab," John said, finally letting the words come out.

"That's not true," Sherlock said. "You expected it. You just wanted to be surprised. You wanted to hear her say how she was managing a happy life of having a job and finally finding someone after Clara. You didn't want the inevitable disturbance that is reality. People follow their trends of self-destruction, but you wanted her to be the exception."

"She just- she- I just don't know why she'd lie to me. After all of this time." He cradled his head by a trembling hand.

"Siblings. Their infuriating nature is troubling beyond comprehension at times."

"Yeah. At least Mycroft never disappointed you like this."

That startled Sherlock. He sprung from his fetal position and sat right on the edge of his chair. His sudden change of movement made John snap and sit up straight, surprised that Sherlock Holmes's face was a mere five inches away from his.

"John. You haven't the slightest clue on how Mycroft has hurt me. How the disappointment I see in him affects every conversation I hold with him."

At this John couldn't help but chuckle slightly at his friend's intensity. "Sherlock – you and Mycroft may be icy towards each other, but at least you talk. And all you do is just make fun of him. How could he ever hurt you? What, did he say your cheekbones were too pointy?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair and lowered his head. John could tell that something quite extraordinary was about to happen. He could feel it. And it did.

Sherlock Holmes opened up.

"John. I've never talked to anyone about this so-"

"Don't worry, it's me," John murmured.

Sherlock looked up at John, a deep sadness in his eyes, something John had never seen before. It made John's hair stand up on end. The wall of deduction, science, and coldness was melting down right as John was looking at the man in front of him.

"It wasn't always the cigarettes."

A cold, prickly sensation went through John. He felt sickened by his insensitivity and ignorance. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I'm so stupid, I can't believe that passed my mind-"

"John. I wanted to be my brother." Sherlock cut him off and leaned in again. "But I never was able to be him. And when I finally stepped out of my revering nature and perceived him how he actually is," Sherlock paused, staring into his companion's worried eyes. "It destroyed my world."


	2. Chapter 2

"_Please talk to me, John."_

_The buzz jolted him out of his reverie. _

_John looked at the text and sighed. He didn't want to deal with Harry. He didn't want to deal with that… cycle of expectations again. Thinking that she was fine. That she set an example. The big sis that she never was. _

_But because of all of the circumstances, with Sherlock being gone and everything seeming to fall apart, John's resilience was being tested and he felt weak. Before he could get a chance to think of a text that he could send, though, a tapping came from the door._

"_Mrs. Hudson let me in. Surprised she didn't faint when she saw me."_

_John looked back and saw the man with the umbrella._

"_Mycroft."_

"_John," Mycroft said conversationally. As airy as he intended it to feel, its naturalness felt forced._

"_Why are you here?" _

_Mycroft looked around the room, avoiding John's gaze. He could tell that Mycroft was trying to get words out. Words that, as soon as John heard them, sounded foreign coming from their source._

"_I suppose… it's sentiment."_

_A long pause._

"_Yes, I know it seems… unreal to hear that from me," Mycroft eventually continued. He was unloading a very personal kernel of his being to John. This was something he expected of Sherlock but… Mycroft?_

_I guess that this is a desperate time, John mused._

"_You must understand, John," Mycroft said, "I didn't always give off this cold exterior. Rather, it is only a reaction to the fact that, as a child, I was quite emotionally charged. I hated it. If anything, Sherlock helped me harden my heart. Toughen my skin. For situations like these though, memories of those feelings come back…"_

_Mycroft took another pause and sighed. "He was my brother. Well, he was more than that. He was the proof of my failure as an older brother. And now the proof is only final."_

* * *

><p>Mycroft was reading Sophocles.<p>

He hated Sophocles.

The whole Oedipus trilogy seemed all so trite to him. I mean _really, _gauging out your eyes? The symbolism was dripping in banality.

But, he had no choice. Reading Sophocles helped calm Mycroft down whenever he felt a bit out of touch. Whenever the other kids at school would make fun of him because he, as a seven-year-old, could recite passages of Shakespeare.

_They should be worshipping the ground I walk on, _Mycroft would think every time a boy or girl would yell gibberish at his face.

_I'll make them someday._

He would go off to the side during lunch break, while the other kids would be playing in the field and read Sophocles. Having an internal fictitious argument with the Ancient Greek author was less stressful than normal people and got his mind off of the bullies.

But this wasn't a situation where there were bullies present. This wasn't even a bad situation. In fact, Mycroft was excited. But that sort of feeling made him nervous, and he didn't want to concentrate on that anymore.

His baby brother was being brought home.

Mycroft had visited Mummy at the hospital when he first was born. He saw her lying and all sweaty, but stroked his head and managed to give him a warm kiss on his forehead.

He wasn't allowed to see his brother, though. His brother was in a tube of some sort… the doctors said that he was sick. Father said that the doctors said that he was out a bit earlier than they expected. Mycroft didn't need Father to tell him that this meant that the baby was sick. He could read it in his eyes.

Mycroft's heart clenched. The little brother that he always wanted might be taken from him.

_I don't even want to think about what that would do to Mummy or Father._

Mycroft didn't see Mummy for what seemed like forever. Father would travel back and forth from their flat in Islington to St. Bart's Hospital every day. The nanny, Mrs. Peddle, was responsible for Mycroft's travels to and from school.

Mycroft severely disliked Mrs. Peddle. She smelled of stale sweets and had an annoying trill to her voice.

"Mycroft, DEEEAAAAAR, time for SCHOOOOOOOL!" was the wake-up call.

Finally, the young Holmes heard back from Father when he was at the hospital one Saturday morning.

"Mycroft, dear, your baby brother is going to be okay. The doctors helped him become healthy," said the wearied but relieved voice on the other end of the call.

"Oh, that is wonderful news, Father!"

"Yes, my dear boy. We're going to bring him home today."

Mycroft's grip on the phone tightened. "To-today?"

"Yes! So we shall see you very soon! You've been so good with dealing with all of this. I am going to take you out to the shops later today. Alright, love, I'll see you in a bit."

The phone clicked off.

_Today… today? I have never held a baby before. And now they expect me to hold a baby today? And it's my brother! What if he hates me? What if we don't become best friends? Will we still love each other when we grow up? Will I have to cradle his head a certain way when I hold him the first time?_

Mycroft was flushed. He needed Sophocles.

By the time that Tiresias was bestowing upon Oedipus his doomed fate, Mycroft heard the click of the door open.

"Mycroft!"

"Mummy!"

Mycroft got up from his little reading spot in the middle of the hallway and ran to the door. He was in his mother's arms in an instant, happiness warming his heart.

Mummy set him down.

"Come on, Mycroft, let's sit on the sofa."

He followed Mummy to the living room, and there they waited for a few minutes.

"You're going to love your baby brother. Very, very much."

Mycroft got a strange chill down his spine.

"Ah! There you are!"

Father walked in with a bundle in his arms.

"Mycroft, I know you must be nervous. But trust me, this is a baby that you will want to hold."

"I just get so nervous that I'm going to break something!"

"I know, dear boy. But hold out your arms and you'll see something incredibly special.

Mycroft did so and but closed his eyes. A slightly heavy, warm weight filled the space between his arms.

He opened his eyes.

And for the first time, he was looking eye to eye with his baby brother, Sherlock Holmes.

The baby was overall calm, giving a few kicks in the air now and again. He had steady dark eyes and some curls of dark brown hair. The baby was small, but his strong kicking showed that he was much healthier than he was before. And all the while, the baby didn't take his eyes off of Mycroft, and Mycroft was entranced in his. _You're my brother._

"My brother," Mycroft smiled.

_I have to protect you._


	3. Chapter 3

(Sorry for not updating for like, two months. I'll try to be a bit more regular!)

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock sat from his perch watching John and Mycroft through the flat's windows. <em>

"_Mycroft, you don't look too well," Sherlock mumbled, "putting weight again. My fault, I suppose."_

_Everything was Sherlock's fault to Mycroft. Even his fake death was Sherlock's fault in Mycroft's eyes, unless John talked some sense into him. Sherlock hoped so, because he loathed his brother's self-pitying nature._

_He did not loathe his brother, though. Rather, it was nice to see that Mycroft was actually interacting with the one person Sherlock kept close to his heart. _

_There was a time, though, that Sherlock did hate his brother. Hate him, indeed._

* * *

><p>For Sherlock, the relative passage of time has shifted over a course of many years. Some months seemed longer than the rest, while others briskly whisked by. But this sort of waiting around for time to pass by was boring while sober.<p>

Tonight, however, that particular passage of time was condensed into mere hours. The intensity of time was pounding out his brain, eroding his senses.

Drugs mess with that kind of stuff. A lot.

Sherlock slumped over the side of the dumpster and puked up the remains of his stomach. He had been drinking heavily in addition to the injections he had applied in his arm. He didn't even bother asking what they were. All he knew is that they supplied his devilish need. His need to alter his mind, his state of being. The shame and guilt that penetrated his normally cold persona washed away with the help of mind-numbing stimulants and depressants, all wrapped into one nice little present of a night of drug variety.

He felt good. Really, he did. He had finished puking and the swirling in his head was at a pleasant, slow speed. Years stopped playing out before his eyes, and he felt time to pass at more a stable rate. Warmth was in his heart. Ah, the walk home would be glorious, then.

Oh, a bit stumble here and there was fine. Tipsy was better than retching his stomach out.

He smiled, eventually letting out a small chuckle and then looking up at the sky and laughing brashly. Out of his peripheral vision he noticed blue and red lights flashing and heard a familiar voice.

"Sherlock Holmes!" it said, sounding like an assertive father that he never had. "Sherlock, this is _the last time_ I am catching you like this. I don't care if you're Mycroft's brother, I _have _to take you into the station for disturbing the peace."

"Disturbing the peace?" Sherlock slurred, still looking up and now spinning around. "Oh no, I am merely _enjoying _the peace! The peace of the stars above! Look at them, specks of light in an almost absolute oblivion. They're…" Sherlock stopped spinning and looked directly at Lestrade, faltering in step. "They're beautiful." Sherlock pointed upwards. "And I am beautiful like them! My mind is a flipping bed of roses, and therefore, I'm beautiful."

"Alright, rose boy, you can be as fancy as you'd like, but that's not changing the fact that you're coming with me. I'll let Mycroft know that you're in the station and he can bail you out, but you need to learn your lesson."

"Yes, learn a lesson from that _cretin_," Sherlock spat, his tongue lazily forming the words. "He couldn't teach me a lesson even if I told him how to teach me a lesson, which, as you should know, I have done before."

"Yes, well, at least he's not a wino and is doing his job! Bloody Hell, Sherlock, I'd thought you'd be someone when we'd first met!"

"That was a long time ago, when I was cheapened with childish optimism that one day I might be accepted."

Lestrade paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. Sherlock had never once alluded to be wanted, to be accepted, let alone wanting to interact with another human being. It was sad, really. To look into Sherlock's soul, and not even in Sherlock's control. Drunkenness exposed the younger Holmes brother in an unnerving way, and Lestrade had too weak of a heart to deal with it.

"Well, maybe one day someone will come along," Lestrade said lamely, chastising himself for not thinking of something more inspiring while leading Sherlock into the car. "Maybe you'll find a trusty sidekick in all of your adventures."

All Sherlock could do was laugh bitterly.

* * *

><p>"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"<p>

Sherlock woke up, head maliciously being imploded from the inner depths of his mind. His brain felt like it had just been beaten up.

"Mmmrfh," was all Sherlock could muster in the presence of his disapproving brother. He was sitting slumped by the railing, looking up at his brother growing increasingly red in the cheeks.

"Sherlock Holmes, this is the last, and _I mean the last_ time I will ever bail you out after a drunken night in jail! Oh, what will Mother think? You know I have kept this hidden from her for _years_, Sherlock, years! I think it's about time she know so you can shape up with your life!"

"Mycroft, why don't you just leave me in the cell and go away? I am not in the mood for your incessant squawking."

"If you got it your way, you'd stay with jail and admit defeat, hiding away from society. But as long as I am successful, Sherlock, I can not have members of the British government judging me on the account that I have a failure of a brother!"

"_LIKE YOU'RE SUCH THE SUCCESS YOURSELF!" _Sherlock roared, standing up and looking straight into Mycroft's eyes. His head was exploding with awful, awful pain, but his hatred for the man in front of him distracted him from it.

"Mycroft, not only have you cheapened yourself to become a pawn in a corrupt government system, you have countlessly and timelessly disappointed and betrayed me. If I'm a failure, then it is because you made me this way, you half-arsed hack!"

Sherlock was gripping onto the railing, panting from the rage. All of those things he just said had been bottled up for years, only being shown in small retorts and searing comebacks. Never had Sherlock been so angry with his brother but now. His brother, who blamed all of his problems on Sherlock. His brother, who had always cast him aside. His brother, who was the one that told the kids at school that he was a freak. His brother didn't love him. His brother merely saw him as another one of his pieces in a game that he thought he controlled. Mycroft's stupid little game.

Sherlock was surprised, then, when Mycroft started to cry. Sherlock had never seen Mycroft cry, he had only known Mycroft to go and be by himself if he ever was overcome with emotion. But here he was, the brother he hated, crying.

"Sherlock… I'm so sorry."

Mycroft left the cell. An hour passed and Lestrade let Sherlock out. As Sherlock walked into the world, birds chirping and tourists walking by, he thought, for the first time in his life that he might have to change.


End file.
